i have come to consider that perhaps the lauding of masculinity is the greatest indication of the lack of it.

translation please...

The death, this is the death
but love, this is love
The death, this is only the death
but love, this is love

just a few things...

there are a few lyrics that just seem to say something they never said before.

This is no great illusion;
when I’m with you I’m looking for a ghost or invisible reasons
to fall out of love and run screaming from our home.
__

But you are what you love,
and not what loves you back.
That’s why I’m here on your doorstep,
pleading for you to take me back

And the phone is a fine invention—it allows me to talk endlessly to you,
about nothing, disguising my intentions,
which I’m afraid, my friend, are wildly untrue.
It’s a sleight of hand, a white soul band,
the heart attacks I’m convinced I have
every morning upon waking.
To you I’m a symbol or a monument,
your rite of passage to fulfillment,
but I’m not yours for the taking

But you are what you love,
and not what loves you back.
So I guess that’s why you keep calling me back.

I’m fraudulent, a thief at best,
a coward who paints a bullshit canvas;
things that will never happen to me.